“I offered to pay Van’s debt." She reached into her back pocket and waved her checkbook at him. She'd apparently retrieved it from her apartment. "This is more than that for you. What is it? You tell me why you refused my offer and I’ll tell you what I was looking for.”
He didn’t say anything. How could he tell her what he couldn’t understand himself? She was right. He could’ve received a nice fat check this morning and sent her on her merry way. He’d be done and lying between Shasta’s legs right now. Shasta was one of the women who regularly spent time at the camp. She was a favorite of Anthony’s because she knew what she was. A whore. A lay. Someone he could work off his pent-up energy with. She had no expectations, and that’s how he liked his women. She never asked questions. She never challenged him or his authority. It was one of the reasons he got tired of Veronique. She wanted more from him, and he wasn't interested in giving. Why was he putting up with this tiny blonde shrew? The little witch who had in less than twenty-four hours somehow managed to crawl under his skin and attempt to set up permanent residence there. Shaking his head as if to ward off the outrageous thought, he changed the subject.
“Are the flowers from your boyfriend? The older man Richard said you ran off with a few years ago? He still hanging around? You keeping him a secret from your parents?” He cast her a sidelong glance.
He knew he must have hit a nerve because she stiffened and he thought he saw a shimmer of tears start to form in her eyes before she turned her head to look out the passenger window.
“Take a right, and I’ll show you,” she said, her voice sounding sad as if the fight had gone out of her.
After several more one-syllable directions, Anthony drove up to the entrance of Forest Lawn Cemetery. Ah, he thought. Flowers for her grandmother.
Christy told him where to stop and wordlessly climbed out of the truck. He stayed put and watched her approach a large oak tree, kneeling nearby in front of a small gravestone. She picked up some dying flowers and set them aside, replacing them with the fresh bouquet she held. Surely, Roberta “Bobbi” Bowen would’ve had an elaborate headstone. His curiosity got the better of him, and he quietly left the truck. His long shadow cast a darkness over the modest headstone. She knew he was behind her, but she didn’t acknowledge him.
“Who is Abigail Ramirez?” he asked.
The dates indicated that Abigail hadn’t made it to her second birthday. Thus, the small headstone. A tiny monument to a tiny life.
Without turning around, Christy answered quietly, “Abby was Litzy’s little girl. Litzy was our live-in nanny. She practically raised me.”
“What happened to Abby?” he asked. He mentally kicked himself. Why does that matter to me? he wondered and immediately convinced himself that it didn't.
“She had a rare disease. The doctors did everything they could.” She stood then and without looking at Anthony she carried the wilted old flowers back to his truck.
The ride back to his house was a silent one. He’d had to bite his tongue to keep the nasty remarks at bay. He wanted so badly to lash out, but found that he couldn’t. He wanted to jab her with unkind comments about how she apparently couldn’t buy everything. It was obvious that Christy hadn't been able to purchase a cure for Abigail and after seeing how much she cared for Nadine, who had only been a part of Christy’s life for a year or so, he didn’t have to ask to know that Christy had probably done everything she could financially to help the family’s longtime nanny keep her child alive.
For the first time in their very short acquaintance, he saw her as more than a spoiled, rich brat. He saw her as a human being. He saw her as someone who cared beyond her bank balance and her fancy car dealership and family mansion. The duplex was a surprise. She certainly could’ve lived in a nicer place. There was nothing wrong with her apartment, he just hadn’t expected it. He was going to ask her about it when they rounded the turn and his house came into view.
He squinted to see who was parked in the driveway.
“I wonder who’s here?” he asked out loud. He was concerned. He didn’t get visitors and his cleaning lady, who came twice a month and wasn’t due for a couple days, drove a light blue Honda.
“Looks like Alexander is back,” she said, her voice quiet.
“No. X was supposed to pick up your car. That can’t be your car,” he told her.
“Why can’t it be my car?” she asked.
“You told me it was a white convertible.”
“Yeah, and that’s a white convertible,” she countered, gesturing to the car in front of them.
He pulled up behind it and noted the Bobbi Bowen decal situated right above the bumper.
“It’s a Volkswagen,” he said dryly. “It’s a VW Rabbit. You drive a Rabbit?” he asked. His tone reeked of skepticism.
“Yes, I drive a Rabbit. And why are you so shocked?” she asked him.
“You can drive anything you want, and you drive a Volkswagen?”
She looked over at him, her eyes serious. “You have a real hang-up over my money, don’t you? You think you know me because of my family and my grandmother’s legacy. You don’t know me at all.”
He was speechless. She was right. If he was certain he had someone pegged, it had been her. The silver spoon dangling from her mouth was so big it swung like a pendulum. And yet, she blew every preconceived notion he'd thought about her out of the water. She was nothing like what he assumed her to be.
“So, I guess you get a new Rabbit every year, then?” he asked, trying to somehow still peg her, no matter how little, as the overprivileged child of wealth he'd assumed her to be.
“Why would I do that when this one runs perfectly? It's two years old and in excellent condition.”
“You could be driving a Lamborghini, and you drive a Rabbit?” he asked, not expecting her to answer. "By choice?"
“I don't want to drive a Lamborghini. My car is fun to drive,” she replied, her voice rising a little as she tried to convince him.
“I can’t imagine a Rabbit being fun to drive,” he told her evenly. “Even if I was driving around with a bunch of clowns, there's no way I can see that being fun.” He nodded toward her car.
“Well, I guess you’ve been driving around with the wrong people then, Anthony Bear,” she told him as she got out of his truck and headed for the front door.
Chapter Eleven
Naples, Florida 1978
After they were inside, Christy glanced around the large space, noting the masculine yet tasteful furnishings for the first time. The walls of the great room were painted a deep maroon, and he’d filled up the living space with chocolate brown leather sofas that faced each other. Dark green, maroon and tan woven quilts were draped over the back of each couch which were separated by a low coffee table that had been crafted from an old barn door. The dark hardwood floors contrasted nicely with the framed artwork that was displayed. He walked up behind her as she stood and stared at a unique piece of art that hung above the fireplace.
He cleared his throat noisily, and she swung around. Catching a tantalizing whiff of his skin, she blurted out, “Is Alexander here?”